


The Rest Is Detail

by orphan_account



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lady Sybil Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-05 18:42:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21213293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The chauffeur and the Earl's daughter were never met to be together - live wasn't a novel after all. Yet, Tom Branson was never just a chauffeur to Sybil Crawley and she was never just the daughter of his employer to him. And in times of war, the 'friendships' that aren't quite appropriate flourish, but happiness is never guaranteed, especially not when the world is at war.





	1. Prologue

_ ‘She didn’t want love, she wanted to be loved, _ _ and that was entirely different.’ - Atticus _

The sheets of rain pounded the grounds of Downton Abbey mercilessly the night that Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, had announced that the country was at war. The sky unleashed a torrent of icy tears as if mourning for all those who had lost their lives already and for all who would lose their lives in the years to come. Thunder grumbled angrily, and lightning danced across the sky while the wind howled, forcing the trees to bow down beneath the sky while the very foundations of Downton Abbey shook beneath the sky. No one in their right mind dared to venture outside. There was no way that they could do so without being soaked to the skin and at the full mercy of the storm.

However, one person dared to brave the fierce weather.

Dressed only in her thin nightgown and dressing robe, Sybil Crawley found herself outside in the storm. The icy rain pelted her frozen skin until it burnt with the wind’s fingers tore harshly at her skin. Frozen half to death and drenched in icy water, she found herself stumbling through the darkness, away from the comfort of her home and towards a small cottage at the edge of the driveway. Her feet slipped and slid in her flimsy slippers while her think nightdress clung to her body. Only the robe around her managed to hide her form from anyone who happened to be looking outside. Her teeth chattered, and every nerve in her body told her to turn back and return to the warmth, but she couldn’t. Her mind and heart were set on what she wanted; no, on what she needed, or more importantly, who she needed.

Upon reaching the small cottage, Sybil shivering slight figure paused, unsure of whether to go through with it. Fear coursed through her veins at the thought of disturbing him or angering him. She wasn’t sure how he would react to the sight of her at his door in the middle of the night, but she knew that she needed to see him. She needed to feel his strong hands on hers, gently soothing and calming her. She needed to hear his soft Irish rasp and needed a comforting voice to guide her through the muddle of emotions that swirled through her head.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

At first, there was nothing — no sign of movement. No lights came on, and she couldn’t see any figure move around in the shadows. Fear gripped Sybil. He wasn’t going to answer; she wouldn’t be able to see him. Trembling, she stared at the stable, unyielding door before her and let out a soft sob. There was no point in it - he wasn’t awake, and there was no point waiting out here in the cold.

Just as she moved to brush away her fallen tears, Sybil’s eyes caught sight of a flickering glow from one of the windows and face staring back out of her. Confusion, intrigue and concern danced through his eyes as he stood there frozen like a startled animal, unable to do anything but stare at her. And she stared back, transfixed. 

It didn’t last long.

Once the initial shock had worn off, Tom Branson darted out of sight, flicking on the faulty lights in the two rooms that made up his small cottage. A warm orange glow filtered through the small windows as Tom rushed towards the front door. Wrenching it open, his bright blue eyes wide and confused. For a long moment, he just stared at her before finally holding out a hand for Sybil and murmuring: “Lady Sybil?”

“B-Branson.” Sybil managed to stutter, stepping closer to him, taking in hand in hers and smiling weakly as a surge of warmth flooded her from where his hand joined hers.

“By the Lord, what are you doing out there?” Tom asked, his eyes still wide and his mind unable to take in the sight before him of Sybil Crawley shivering and rain-soaked in little more than her nightwear. Upon registering this, he found himself adding: “Come inside, come on.” 

“I-I’m s-so s-sorry,” Sybil whispered, stepping across the threshold into the tiny chauffeur’s cottage.

In this light, Tom could see her properly, from her trembling features to her drenched hair. The white satin of her nightdress clung to her, leaving very little to the imagination, and he found himself quickly averting his gaze towards her face, not daring to look past her neck. Even then, he found himself staring at her beautiful features, only noticing how white she had turned and how the rain had made her dark lashes stick together while her long hair, which had been braided down her back, attached to her trembling form.

“What? Why are you apologising?” Tom asked, searching her features for a moment, before deciding that it was less than important. He didn’t need to know, and it certainly wasn’t a priority right now. Shaking his head, he mumbled: “It doesn’t matter. You need to warm up first.” 

Nodding, Sybil allowed him to gently pull her to the moth-eaten armchair by the dying fire. It looked older than Tom, and certainly older than she was, but more comfortable than the rest of the furnishings in his living area and kitchen. He kept a tight hand on hers as he led her into the small, two-roomed cottage and helped her into the low chair before crouching down in front of her, his hand still in hers.

“Christ, you’re freezing cold, A ghrá,” Tom mumbled, more to himself than to Sybil, but in the silence of the cabin, Tom’s whispers were louder than the storm outside. Glancing up at Sybil, Tom cleared his throat softly and stated: “You’re icy cold, My Lady. I’ll go and get you a blanket and then will get the fire going, okay?”

Pulling his hand away from Sybil’s, the Irishman stood up slowly, towering over Sybil as he did so and turning away, towards the darkness of his room. He had barely taken a step when he felt a warm, soft hand on his own, holding him still and in place, preventing him from going any further. Just as he was about to speak up, Tom heard Sybil’s quiet, fearful stutter: “D-don’t g-go.”

Turning around to face her, Tom found his heart breaking, and he gently spoke up: “Hey, I’m not leaving, a ghrá, I am just going to get you a blanket. I will be in there for a few moments, that’s all, I promise. I won’t leave you, My Lady, not ever.” 

His promise echoed through Sybil’s ears, and she begrudgingly let go of his hand, allowing him to turn away from her once more and cross the room in several short steps before disappearing from sight. Her silvery-blue gaze stayed fixed on the doorway to Tom’s room, unable to look away from the golden glow seeping through the crack in the door. Sybil waited somewhat impatiently until Tom’s figure reappeared holding a thick, slightly scratchy woollen blanket. 

“Here, hopefully, this will warm you up,” Tom whispered, draping the blanket around her shaking shoulders, trying to stop himself from smiling as his fingers brushed her smooth skin. His eyes remained respectful as he covered her in the dark grey-blue material, moving her soaking hair from underneath it with a tenderness that Sybil didn’t know he possessed. Time slowed down as Tom gently made sure that the blanket covered her small frame.

“I-I’m s-scared,” Sybil whispered, pulling the warm blanket around her shoulders, and looking up at Tom with those large, wide silvery-blue eyes that he could get lost in.

“I can tell,” Tom mumbled, not unkindly, but as a mere observation. He had never been one who understood how to calm someone’s nerves, but he would do his damned best to make sure that Sybil was alright. His battered heart wouldn’t allow anything less, but first, he was determined to make her feel more comfortable. Rising to his full height, he gently tucked a piece of hair behind Sybil’s ear and stated: “Let me get this fire going and make you a cup of tea and then we can talk. Hopefully, by then, your teeth will have stopped chattering.”

“T-Thank you.”

Sybil watched as Tom moved away, taking in the man before her. She hadn’t ever seen Tom out of his chauffeur’s livery before and couldn’t help but stare. His white top hugged his broad shoulders and his toned figure while her pyjama trousers hung from his hips. His light brown hair was tousled and his eyes bleary with sleep, but he ignored that as he set about stoking the fire and adding more kindling to it before rising towards the small kitchen area. As he pottered about with the kettle, Sybil watched on, edging towards the fire, allowing the warmth to seep into her bones and a sense of comfort flooded through her when Tom finally turned back to her.

“It mightn’t be as nice as the stuff you get upstairs, but it’ll have to do.” Tom smiled, handing her the mug of tea before grabbing a rickety stool from beside the wall and setting it down opposite Sybil as she took a small sip of tea, smiling at the warmth that spread through her. 

“Thank you, Branson.” Sybil whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, please, not to me.” Tom shook his head, reaching out for Sybil’s free hand and squeezing it lightly, watching a small smile flicker at her lips before he asked: “Do you want to tell me why you came here in the middle of a storm?”

“I’m scared,” Sybil whispered, taking a sip of tea and allowing the warmth to spread through her entire body. Relaxing slightly, she kept her hand firmly entwined with his, knowing full well that it was her primary source of comfort.

“I can see that, but why? And can I help? I want to help you.” Tom’s voice was laced with confusion and a hint of fear, but he pushed that aside and focused solely upon her. 

“Everything is changing.” Sybil hiccuped, setting aside her cup with a shaky hand and taking both of Tom’s hands in hers as she found herself mumbling: “Gwen’s leaving. Matthew wants to join the army and fight the Germans. Mary and Edith might murder one another, and my parents are less than content. Everyone is leaving me.”

“I’m not leaving you, My Lady.” Ton assured her, “and --”

“Please don’t call me that. Not here, not tonight.” Sybil whispered, needing to break free of the formalities that had dictated her life for the past eighteen years of her life. All she wanted was to be normal for a moment and seek the comfort of someone she valued in every single way.

“Sybil, love, look at me, please.” Tom whispered, gently lifting Sybil’s chin and smiling softly at her, hoping to ease her pain at that moment before he added softly: “No one is leaving you, not really.”

“People are going to get hurt. I can’t bear the thought of it.” Sybil breathed, her voice was little more than a timid sound that left Tom’s heart aching. 

“That is what happens during war, but we will do our best to make sure that the fighting doesn’t hit Downton.” Tom attempted to reassure her, and he found himself squeezing her hand once more before swallowing. With a shaky breath, Tom mumbled: “And Mr Matthew will be protected, that I can promise you. His noble blood will protect him; I can promise you that.”

“Can you?”

“No one in power is going to sacrifice the heir to a wealthy estate if they can sacrifice a million commoners, and plenty of us have signed up,” Tom muttered in disgust, unable to detach himself from the lower classes for even a moment, not realising how Sybil might interpret his wording. 

“Us? Please tell me you haven’t signed up?” Sybil begged, her eyes widening to the size of dinner plates while she trembled at the mere thought of Tom being carted off to war. 

“I haven’t, and I don’t plan on it,” Tom assured her, his accent thickening unintentionally. He’d never sign up to serve the English army, no matter what honour dictated. He was too proud to do that, but upon seeing the look on Sybil’s face, he added: “Unless they call me up, I will not be leaving Downton. I can assure you of that.”

“Promise me?” Sybil pleaded/

“I promise I will not leave Downton unless I am forced to do so,” Tom swore, his eyes never leaving hers as he spoke. The words reverberated around them, filling the small cottage with that one single promise. It held more weight than anything Tom had ever uttered, before or since.

“Branson --”

“If I have to dispense with the formalities, then surely you can.” Tom declared, squeezing Sybil’s hands once more and edging closer to her.

“Tom.”

Years later, Tom would swear that there had never been anything as sweet as to hear that one word fall from Sybil’s lips. There would be close seconds of course, but nothing meant as much to him as hearing his name fall from her lips for the first time. All barriers of class, belief and social approval seemed to melt away in an instant. Both fell silent as that one singular word floated around them, sealing their entwined fates with one another. They were no longer just a chauffeur and the daughter of an Earl - they were something much more than that in that one moment.

Their fate was sealed.

And they knew it.

Sybil’s breath hitched for a moment before she finally shook off the feeling and asked: “Am I being completely ridiculous, Tom?”

“No, you aren’t.” Tom promised, “you're human, and more importantly, you are being Sybil Crawley. No one could ask for any less or any more than that.”

“I don’t quite know what you mean by that,” Sybil confessed, leaning towards him, wishing she dared to ask him to hold her and wanting nothing more than to stay in this moment. 

“Oh, love, what I mean is that you are so loving and so kind that the mere thought of someone, even people you don’t know, getting hurt breaks your heart. Your empathy and compassion are unrivalled by any person I have ever met from any class, and you are so driven, and you aim to make the world a better place. Yes, you’re flawed, and you get scared, but I know that after tonight you will dry your eyes, set your shoulders back and show the world what you are capable of because you do that every single time. You don’t give, and you’re not going to. It’s okay to be scared, and I promise you that I am here to hold your hand until you feel safe again.” Tom proclaimed, his accent thickening once more as his passion grew more and more. His eyes sparkled with every word he spoke, and the truth rang clear through his every word. His heart hammered loudly in his chest with every word he spoke, and the blood rushed in his ears, but he couldn’t stop himself from the torrent of praise that left his lips.

“Tom, I --” 

Sybil stared at him in disbelief. Her heart was hammering to escape her chest, begging to be given to the man before her and her cheeks flushed under the intensity of his words. She couldn’t help but find herself being enamoured by Tom’s words, and when she failed to finish her sentence, she couldn’t help but feel that her silence spoke for itself.

“I know,” Tom whispered, his voice a little hoarse and a lot softer. They lapsed into silence for a moment, neither quite knowing what to say. Sybil’s tea lay long forgotten, and Tom looked intently at her. No one had ever stared at her with such adoration, and that in itself gave her the courage to ask the one question she was burning to ask.

“Can I ask you to do something entirely inappropriate?”

“More inappropriate than everything so far?” Tom smirked slightly, watching Sybil’s mouth twist into a smile at the idea of it all. It certainly hadn’t been a night of property for either of them. Then again, he mused, it could have been much worse. They had least remained respectful of certain boundaries.

“Can you hold me, please?” Sybil asked, not quite meeting Tom’s gaze and preparing for rejection.

“Oh, a chroí,” Tom muttered rising instantly.

His arms wound themselves around Sybil’s small form the moment she rose up, pulling her into his arms and against his chest so that her head came to rest by his thudding heart. Sybil buried her head into his neck and snaked her arms around his waist, holding him as tightly as she could. There was barely any space in between them as they held on for dear life. There were no sounds besides the crackle of the fire and the soft Gaelic phrase that Tom whispered over and over into Sybil’s hair as he held her, swaying them both slightly.

“Gur ghoid tú mo chroí, mo bhean.”


	2. September 1914

'_War is sweet to those who haven't experienced it.'_

_\- Latin_

September 1914

Downton Abbey had been a place of chaos all morning. Upstairs and downstairs had been wholly thrown off-kilter by the suddenness of Matthew Crawley's impending departure. Maids and footmen scurried about ensuring that the place was spotless for the final meal, Matthew would eat there before he left to be changed for the rest of his life. Even Cora and Robert had been rushed off their feet, ensuring that everything would be perfect for that night, and had ultimately decided to pack Mary, Edith and Sybil off to Ripon just to get them out of the way, not that they would say that to any of them. Though, that did mean, for Tom at least, that the day would be even longer than initially planned. After all, he had several hours of listening to the three ladies squabbling.

Mary and Edith accepted his hand to help them up into the car with silence, not bothering to so much as look at him and both let go of his hand as soon as they could. Sybil, on the other hand, took her time, enclosing her small hand in his much larger one for as long as possible before whispering a quiet: "Thank you, Branson."

Once the three ladies were safely settled in the car and Tom had torn his eyes from Sybil's form, he hurried around the side of the car, climbing into his driver's seat and set off down the drive for the journey to Ripon. It was a route he knew all too well by this point, from that fatal counting of the votes, but his mind didn't linger on that thought. There was a more recent distraction still playing in his mind.

Choosing to ignore the ladies behind him, Tom tried to focus on the road, but his thoughts kept flickering back to that evening last month where he'd held Lady Sybil in his arms. He'd never known a woman like her, and he'd never known a woman to drive him crazy like she does. All he could feel, even now, was the pressure of her head against his chest and every look he stole led to his heart skipping a beat, especially when he caught her looking back at him. He omitted a soft sigh as he glanced at the road sign, but his mind was soon directed to the back of the car when he heard Mary's sneering tone, which cut out the gentle hum of the motor, forcing him to listen.

"I don't even see why we need new dresses. We're only seeing off Cousin _Matthew_." Mary stated, disgust, disdain and despair lacing her tone as she spoke Matthew's name. Her usual sneer was fixed in place, and even now, Tom noted, in front of her two sisters, she refused to show weakness. She would not show her fear for Matthew, even though the other three knew full well that it was present.

"He is going to war." Edith reminded her older sister, shaking her head at Mary's harshness. She of all people should have known that Mary was less than forgiving, though she found herself adding: "Besides if you hadn't been so obsessed with ensuring that you inherit Downton, you'd be sending your fiance off to war."

"Who says I would have married the sea monster?" Mary asked scowling.

Tom found himself shaking his head at that comment, which wasn't an uncommon occurrence for him when driving Mary anywhere. He had no idea why Mary was referring to Matthew as a sea monster, but he knew all too well that she was merely covering her heart's true desire. Though, despite that, he couldn't quite comprehend her harshness. He would have just denied it and left it there. Then again, Sybil hadn't outright rejected him and had made no indication that she knew what he truly felt for her.

"You weren't calling him a sea monster when we were in London." Edith pointed out, her dark gaze fixed on Mary's and oblivious to the glance that Sybil was sending Tom. Neither Edith nor Mary ever noticed the frequent glances Sybil and Tom had exchanged over the past two years, and they certainly didn't see the blush creeping onto Sybil's cheeks whenever Tom caught her staring.

"Things have changed since London." Mary reminded them, anger flashing in her gaze.

From his position safely in the front, Tom watched as the three sisters lapsed into silence. Mary stared staunchly out of the window, refusing to look at either of her sisters. Edith folded her arms over her chest and looked out of the other window, her lips pursed, and her expression dark. Sybil, poor Sybil, remained sat between them, unsure of where to look. She couldn't comfort Mary in fear of upsetting Edith or vice versa, so instead her eyes drifted upwards. In the mirror, silvery-blue eyes met stormy blue for a brief moment, pulling Sybil away from the real world for a second. She didn't even notice the soft sigh that left her lips until Mary spoke up.

"Sybil, darling, are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm quite fine, don't worry," Sybil assured her sister, flushing instantly, just as a low crunch came from the gears in the front of the car. Snapping her head up in alarm, Sybil found herself exclaiming: "Branson! Is there something wrong with the car?"

"The gear stalled. Sorry, My Ladies." Tom called back, flustered. He hadn't stalled this car since first being asked to drive it, and he couldn't shake off the fear that had flooded him at the sound of that unpleasant crunch.

"Do be careful, Branson." Mary snapped, almost scolding him like a child. Tom had to bite his tongue so as not to reply. Otherwise, he would have lost his job in a second.

"Don't scold him, Mary, it was an accident." Sybil countered, looking over at Tom briefly, a flicker of sorrow in her gaze before she turned to her other sister and added: "Don't you agree, Edith? It wasn't Branson's fault."

"Well, it was hardly ours." Mary cut across, not letting Edith so much as open her mouth.

"Hmm." Edith sniffed, not caring either way, but she certainly wasn't going to agree with Mary. though, hearing Sybil speak up, she found herself asking: "What do you think about Mary changing her tune?"

"I think that both Mary and Matthew made a bad decision that is now affecting them both, but neither will admit it. Matthew was harsh on you, Mary darling, but you didn't give him a straight answer." Sybil informed them both, placing a hand on each of theirs, hoping to soothe them both. She hated seeing them fight, but she found herself having to add: "so, basically I agree with you both," when both of them looked more than confused.

"How diplomatic of you, Sybil." Mary sneered, though there was a spark of gratefulness in Mary's eyes at Sybil's attempt to see both of the sides to the story. She kept her hand on Sybil's, squeezing it gently, hoping that she hadn't hurt her younger sister before she mumbled: "I still don't see why we need new dresses."

"At least we are getting something new. Besides, you usually love getting a new dress." Sybil pointed out, her eyes flickering back to Tom's, watching his jaw tightening at the silliness of the argument, and the capitalist nature of it.

"I just don't like the occasion." Mary sighed, glancing out of the window once more.

"You never do," Edith muttered, darkly, but after a moment, she found herself whispering: "I wish Matthew wasn't going to war though."

"I think he is very brave, but I am scared for him too," Sybil mumbled.

All three sisters were inclined to agree with Sybil, even if they wouldn't admit it. Even Mary was worried about Matthew heading off to war, despite how angry she was with him. No one in the car, even Tom, who barely knew the heir to Downton, wanted to see him hurt, though they were all confident that wouldn't happen. That would be a miracle if he survived the war with nothing more than a scratch, and they all knew better than to hope for that miracle.

"Will you go to war, Branson?" Mary asked all of a sudden. All this talk of Matthew's decision to go off to war, had her wondering whether or not any of the servants would be leaving as well. She already knew that Thomas Barrow had signed up to the army medical corps and she couldn't help but wonder whether they'd be losing their revolutionary Irishman as well.

Glancing back at her, Tom found himself pausing for a moment before he responded: "Not if I can help it, My Lady."

"Why is that?" Edith pressed, not quite sure of what to make of it. After all, if the wealthy heirs of grand estates were willing to give up their lives for the war effort, then why shouldn't those belonging to the lower classes do the same? She couldn't quite comprehend Tom's unwillingness not to sign up.

"Really Edith, I thought Sybil was meant to be the inquisitive one." Mary scoffed, rolling her eyes at Edith's curiosity before turning to Tom and all but ordering him to speak. "But go on, Branson, explain why."

"I made a promise to someone very important to me, and I intend to keep that promise," Tom confessed, watching in the mirror as Sybil glanced down at her hands, which were folded in her lap.

"Never thought you'd be a romantic, Branson." Mary chuckled, not thinking anything more of it.

Yet, at Mary's words, Tom found himself glancing into the rearview mirror once more. Mary was staring out at the green scenery while Edith was adjusting her coat. Tom's eyes, however, as always, landed upon Sybil, who was staring back at him in the mirror. She gave him a warm smile, and in return, he winked. The small, almost significant action had a blush flaring upon the young woman's cheeks, but her gaze remained fixated on Tom's face reflected at her in the mirror.

"I guess even revolutionaries have a soft underbelly, My Lady." Tom shrugged, his eyes growing more serious and a small blush creeping onto his cheeks at the thought, even though he had known all along what his underbelly was. Anyone who looked at him could have told you that if they genuinely observed.

Though, there was very little time for Mary and Edith to do so, as almost as soon as his first statement had left his lips, he found himself slowing the car down and stopping. The three passengers looked surprised to see that they were outside Mrs Swann's shop already but the sound of Tom's soft Irish brogue as he announced: "we're here, My Ladies," made reality come crashing back as the real world outside of the car shifted back into view.

As always, Mary and Edith stayed put, not moving until Tom had run around the car to open the door for them, helping them get out in stoic silence, as was expected. Mary clambered out first, making Edith wait behind her before the middle sister stepped on the pavement moving away so that Sybil, who had been trapped inside by them both accepted Tom's hand. Once more, she enclosed her hand in his for as long as possible, smiling softly at him as she whispered: "Thank you, Tom."

With that, she linked arms with both of her sisters and walked off, leaving Tom staring after her, a small grin on his lips.

…

Tom sighed heavily to himself as he paced up and down outside of the small show. He wasn't in a good mood. Boredom had sunk in, and he silently cursed himself for forgetting to bring a book with him. He just wanted to go home. Every fibre of his being wished the ladies would hurry up, but he doubted that knowing how much they could talk, well argue. He knew that he had hours longer to endure. Another long, low sigh left his lips as he rubbed at his eyes, blinking away the harsh light dancing off of the car's gleaming surface.

Just as boredom was about to turn in madness, his ears perked up when he heard footsteps. Twisting around sharply on his heel, Tom couldn't stop himself from smiling at the sight of Sybil making her way over to him. It didn't take long for her to reach him, and he found himself asking: "Please tell me we can leave now?"

"No, unfortunately, we have to wait, but if I remained in there any longer I would have committed fratricide," Sybil confessed, leaning against the car, closing her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed from having forced herself in and out of tightly corseted dresses for over an hour. She despised dress fittings, and Mrs Swann always insisted that her corset was never tight enough to show her womanly figure. Sybil swore that the older woman just liked to see her struggling after her parents had complained when she had gotten that blue harem pant dress that they'd never forgiven her for.

"They don't seem ever to stop arguing," Tom mumbled, shaking his head. He'd never known anyone to bicker in the way that Lady Edith and Lady Mary did. He still couldn't get his head around how these 'high-born' ladies could have worse manners than some of the people he grew up with, who hadn't had a formal education.

"I think the count at Ripon is less volatile than my sisters' relationship." Sybil grinned.

"You were injured in the count." Tom reminded her, his face grave. The light spark in his eyes faded as the memories of carrying Sybil's lifeless body came flooding back to him. He could still smell the sickeningly sweet scent of her blood in the air and remember how pale she was in that instant. He'd never known fear like it. It was the sort of feeling that never left a person, and when he spoke again, his voice was laced with it. "Even your sisters would stop arguing long enough to tell you how dangerous that was for you."

"You saved me," Sybil whispered, flushing like a child who had just been scolded.

"No, Matthew saved you and you made sure he knew that." Tom snapped back, anger mixing with the fear as jealousy bubbled up inside of him. He had never quite gotten over how Sybil had looked at Matthew that night and no matter how much he hoped and prayed she felt what he felt for her, part of his brain never failed to bring that look to the forefront of his mind.

"Tom?" Sybil asked, her voice timid and fearful.

"It doesn't matter. Let's not bring up how you looked at him." Tom huffed, looking away from her, not wanting to make eye contact. He couldn't bear to look into those silvery-blue eyes. Not right now when she had tilted her head to the side and was staring at him so intensely, he feared that he might drown in her gaze.

For a long minute, Sybil just stared at Tom, attempting to process what he had just said, unsure of what to make of it. The gears in her mind turned and twisting, trying to make headway when she finally realised why he had gotten so riled up Stifling a giggle, Sybil asked: "Are you jealous?"

"Not at all, why would I be jealous?" Tom mumbled, his cheeks turning scarlet.

"You do know that I can tell when you lie to me." Sybil pointed out, folding her arms over her chest and staring up at Tom, a gleam in her eyes that he had never seen before. It was a burning confidence that seemed to shine brighter than anything he had ever gazed upon before, and if he hadn't been drowning in her gaze before, he was undoubtedly now.

"Sybil, I -"

Tom gulped, unable to look away. His heart was in his throat, and for once, he couldn't form words. His mind froze, refusing to process any words. For a second, all he could do was stare, his eyes as wide as dinner plates and he looked very much like a deer trapped in the headlights, only he didn't want to run away. He couldn't have done so even if he had wanted. He was frozen in place, staring at Sybil like a fool.

Then, as all of the shock wore off, and his body began to unfreeze, he found himself moving instinctively. His head bowed, and his hand reach up to cup her cheek as Sybil moved ever closer, moving up onto her toes. Their noses just touched, and they could feel their breath fanning out onto the other's lips as their eyes drifted downwards towards each other's lips. Sybil's teeth dug into her bottom lip as Tom's thumb ran over her cheek, tracing the bone and she mumbled: "Tom -"

"Branson, Sybil darling, we're leaving." Mary's voice broke through the silence, snapping them back to reality. Leaping apart, they turned just in time to see Edith and Mary making their way towards the other side of the car, their arms laden with several boxes full of the dresses they had just bought.

Neither of the sisters noticed Sybil's blush or the look of frustration on Tom's face as he helped them into the car. They didn't notice how neither Tom nor Sybil said a word or how Tom scowled at the older two Crawley sisters. They didn't see the way that Sybil's cheeks turned bright red when Tom caught her staring in the rearview mirror. They didn't catch the way that both the chauffeur and their little sister was lost in their own small world. They certainly didn't notice how angry Tom was.

If only they had come out of the shop a few minutes later, he thought indignantly when he started the motor. If only it had just been him and Sybil, Tom grumbled heatedly to himself. If only they'd had more time, Tom wished, knowing that it would have been so easy to have just given in, if only they had had the chance.

_If only._

…

"Are the Ladies safely back, Mr Branson?"

Tom had barely set foot in the servants' quarters when Mr Carson cornered him, his eyes boring into the Irishman's face as he waited for an answer. Tom would never admit it, but he was mildly afraid of Carson. Not that he assumed that the older man would ever want to harm him, but the aura he projected often left Tom gulping and not knowing how to respond. Then again, there were some occasions when he had to bite his tongue not to say anything to Carson that would offend him. There was a fine line that Tom was very wary of crossing.

"Yes, Mr Carson," Tom assured him, wishing he would depart so he could remove the dark green jacket that was too warm to be wearing around the kitchens.

"Good." Mr Carson nodded. He was about to move away, but before he did, he found himself saying to Tom: "Oh, and Mr Branson, considering the fact that you are required to take Mr Crawley to the station after dinner, I thought you should dine with the rest of us this evening. We're having a late meal."

"Thank you, Mr Carson." Tom inclined his head, knowing full well that Mr Carson didn't like going against the traditions, which included the chauffeur not eating with other staff, so he appreciated the offer. Carson was a fair man, no matter how to the book he was or how strict.

"Right, I should go and ring the dressing gong," Carson informed the chauffeur, satisfied with the answer he'd received. He didn't wait long before walking off, only pausing to look Tom once over before departing.

Sighing, Tom relaxed. The second Carson was out of sight, he found himself quickly undoing the shining gold buttons before removing the heavy green material. Folding it over his arm, Tom moved in and out of the other servants, heading towards the coat hooks and hanging up the jacket. He watched as Anna, Miss O'Brien and Mr Bates headed towards the servants' stairs, heading upwards to prepare the Crawleys for their meal while William carried plates and plates of food upstairs for the meal.

"Mr Branson, a word, please."

Tom spun around, snapping out of his daze and found himself facing Mrs Hughes. The look on her face told him that he had no choice in this and Tom couldn't help but feel anxious at the thought of what Mrs Hughes could possibly want from him. She had never asked to speak to him alone before, though that was mainly since she was in charge of the female staff, not the male. That didn't stop her from occasionally talking to him, especially to chastise or warn him.

"Mrs Hughes?" Tom asked quietly, once he had followed her into her living room and she had closed the door. He found himself looking around, taking in the cluttered desk, the three rickety chairs and a small grating in the wall. A small table was pushed against a wall with a scrap of ageing lace on the dark surface. His eyes swept over the surroundings as Mrs Hughes sat down before following her lead and sitting opposite her, waiting for her to speak.

"I have been meaning to catch you for about a month now." Mrs Hughes informed him, cutting to the chase and holding Tom's gaze for a long moment, watching the confusion cross the Irishman's eyes before she stated calmly: "I saw Lady Sybil exiting your cottage the morning after the announcement."

"Mrs Hughes, I -"

"Why was she there?" Mrs Hughes cut in, her eyes narrowing. Her gaze swept over his face, trying to peel back the layers and walls that Tom kept up before he answered as he gulped at her question.

"She was scared and looking for comfort. The storm was too harsh for her return to the house, so I slept in a chair, and she slept in the other room in the bed." Tom confessed, not too able to lie to Mrs Hughes. However, upon seeing the look on Mrs Hughes' face, Tom quickly stated: "We didn't do anything indecent."

"Oh, me lad, you need to be careful." Mrs Hughes sighed, her gaze softening for a moment, not quite knowing what more to say to him. Despite her many years at Downton, she had never experienced a situation quite like this. Several of the staff had been attracted to those who they served but never had she seen it reciprocated before.

"It was one night - she wanted comfort and was too scared to go to her sisters." Tom attempted to explain, wringing his hands over and over, trying to shake off the fear that Mrs Hughes was about to scold him and make him hand in his notice. Half his brain trusted her to keep his secret, but the other half was waiting for her to dismiss her.

"Mr Branson, you are going to end up with a broken heart." Mrs Hughes exhaled, reiterating the warning that she had given him at the garden party. Her green gaze softened gently even more, and she found herself gently reaching over, placing a hand on his hand, hoping to comfort him.

Rubbing at his eye with his spare hand, Tom finally let go of his walls, knocking them down before muttering in a small, timid voice: "I know. God knows how well I know that, but I can't deny her anything. Even if I tried, I still wouldn't be able to deny her anything. I would give her the world if she asked for it."

"I can tell." Mrs Hughes nodded, knowing full well what it was like to be so enamoured by someone in the way that Tom was, both from personal experience and from watching others around her. For a long moment, Mrs Hughes found herself lapsing into silence before she quickly added: "You must be careful and for heaven's sake do not -"

"As a good Catholic, I will have to stop you right there. The only way I would do what you are implying would be if she was my wife." Tom interrupted flushing scarlet at the thought. He had thought of it, of course, he had, more times than he would ever admit but both his faith and his respect of Sybil prevented him from ever moving to instigate that.

"How far do your feelings go for Lady Sybil?" Mrs Hughes pressed, almost sure that she already knew, but she needed to hear him say it. She needed her suspicions to be confirmed before she let him slip from her grasp again. She also knew that Tom needed to voice it, not just to himself, but to someone else, preferably someone who wouldn't judge.

"Tá grá agam di."

The words rolled off of Tom's tongue with ease but carried the weight of the world on their shoulders. Those four softly spoken words that entered the world in little more than a shadow of whisper held more gravity than any other words Tom had ever uttered. The consequence of so much as admitting to them left his soul ever changed. He could no longer ignore the feelings that had been bubbling up inside of him, nor could he turn back. It was out in the open, and even though only Mrs Hughes had heard them, and he had spoken them in his mother tongue, Tom could no longer deny it.

_He loved her._

…

While Tom's words hung in the air downstairs, filling his surroundings with a sense of inevitability, the object of his affections sat in the upstairs dining room surrounded by mountains of food and glasses full of wine. Despite this, Sybil's heart yearned for the small cottage on the edge of the estate where she could be rid of the formalities. She wished to be in the arms of a certain Irishman and away from the rigid demands of her life. Though, deep down, she knew that if she had missed seeing Matthew off, she would have regretted it for the rest of her days. She simply couldn't have both of her wishes, at least not at once.

"So, Matthew, how is the preparation going?" Cora asked, bringing Sybil out of her thoughts.

"I have everything ready for when Branson takes me tonight." Matthew smiled, accepting Cora's nod of approval before watching everyone turned back to Mary, who was once again insisting upon being the centre of attention. Unintentionally, he found himself slumping in his chair. For once, he wanted to feel valued, but of course, Mary wouldn't allow that, especially not when he'd broken her heart.

"Are you nervous?"

Sybil's soft voice pulled Matthew out of his dangerously low mood, reminding him that he wasn't the only one who regularly got excluded from the conversation. In fact, besides from that fateful night after her first rally in Ripon, Sybil was hardly spoken to. Then again, she didn't clamour for attention like her older sisters did.

"A bit, but I need to do my part. Besides, there isn't much here for me anymore." Matthew replied softly, his eyes downcast, and his tone laced with a hint of bitterness.

"There is, I promise." Sybil assured him gently, "you'll always have me. We're family, and I'll always be here for you, even if things aren't good between you and Mary or with Edith."

"Thank you." Matthew smiled, and for the first time in a month, the smile reached his eyes. The icy coldness that had been there since he had rejected Mary seemed to melt at Sybil's words. Then again, Sybil often had that effect on people. His smile didn't last long though as he soon found himself adding, in a much more serious tone: "I have to say, for a moment I feared you were about to tell me you had feelings for me, but I think we both know who the lucky man is."

"Matthew -"

"After the war, when all is settled, and if you still feel that way, I will stick up for you, I promise," Matthew swore, knowing full well that Sybil would never settle for anything less than love. He highly doubted that she would find it in the aristocracy, especially those her parents favoured. She was too wild-spirited and out-spoken to fall into the role of the perfect model housewife who only spoke when spoken to.

"Thank you," Sybil whispered, gratitude gleaming in her gaze.

"Always, we're family after all." Matthew reminded her, raising his wine glass, toasting her silently, an action that Sybil quickly reciprocated with a warm smile to boot as they took a long sip of the dark claret, savouring the moment and sealing Matthew's promise. The two cousins found themselves lost in the moment, a feeling of solidarity flooding them both.

"So did you three have a good time today in Ripon?" Cora asked, glancing between her three daughters, forcing both Matthew and Sybil back into the conversation.

"It was fairly pleasant." Mary shrugged with her usual air of arrogance.

"Miss Swann was pleased to see us again." Edith followed up, not wanting Mary to have the last word on the matter, though she should have known that would only result in Mary glowering over at her.

"Well, I think each of you look very fine. Don't you agree, Matthew?" Isobel smiled, a tender gleam to her voice as her eyes darted between the sisters and then towards her son, who smiled back.

"I do." Matthew nodded, conceding that they did look beautiful in their own way.

Yet, while everyone saw the beautiful materials that highlighted the natural beauty of each young woman, Matthew couldn't help but equate their choice of colours to the impending war. Draped in red and black, Mary seemed to embody the bloodiness and almost centre death of battle. The emerald of Edith's dress made Matthew think of the fields that would soon be littered with blood and the uniform that each would be clad in. And finally, the silvery grey of Sybil's only served to make him think of the nurses uniform. Yes, they looked beautiful - as beautiful as war to anyone who was yet to experience it.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Matthew only just about caught the sound of Mary speaking up once more. "Though Branson managed to stall the car."

"Did he?" Cora asked, her eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise and disbelief. For a second, she attempted to comprehend it before finally murmuring: "I have never known him to do that before."

Her comment, however, was drowned out by Robert, who turned to his youngest daughter and asked: "Should we expect our radical chauffeur to be signing up?"

"No, actually," Edith answered, not realising that the question was directed at Sybil.

"Really?" Robert's eyes remained on Sybil, who refused to meet his gaze as he added: "That's rather surprising."

"Well, I hardly doubt he wants to fight for this country," Violet muttered, knowing full well that the Irishman was hardly going to leap to defend the British, and she was hoping to persuade her son to divert his attention away from Sybil. Ever since she had threatened to run away for Tom, Robert had kept a close eye on Sybil whenever the chauffeur was brought up.

"He says he made a promise not to go to war to someone important though he probably means his mother." Mary supplied, also noticing the look in Robert's eyes. He had become very disapproving of late, and she couldn't stand that look being sent Sybil's way.

"What do you think, Sybil? After all, you two do share political views on some things, so has he mentioned anything?" Robert pressed, sick of Sybil's silence.

"No, as far as I am aware, the Irish aren't pausing their protests during the war, unlike us." Sybil informed him, watching his expression darken when she mentioned 'us' in regards to the Suffragettes. She only encouraged this by turning to the room and continuing with: "Anyway, why are we just talking about the men signing up? Is there anything we can do? I don't want to waste my life well the men sacrifice theirs."

"You would have to look into it, but I am sure there would be nursing jobs for young women such as yourself. But I doubt there will be many right now and everyone is so confident the war will be over by Christmas." Isobel quickly responded, knowing full well that Sybil wouldn't get much approval from her immediate family.

"Let's not talk about this." Robert ground out before turning to his heir, missing the way that Sybil rolled her eyes at him as he addressed Matthew: "I do hope everything goes well for you, Matthew."

"Thank you." Matthew inclined his head, but much to Robert's disappointment, he turned back to Sybil and added: "Though Sybil, I have to say, your compassion is very commendable."

"Thank you," Sybil whispered, flushing under everyone's gazes and found herself quickly reaching for her glass, needing to distract herself for a moment. She hated being the centre of attention, especially when her father was sending her disappointed and disapproving glares.

"Yet, for now, I think you should stay here," Cora stated, hoping to appease both Robert and Sybil. She didn't like the idea of any of her daughters being dragged into the war effort, but she also couldn't abide by the tension in the room.

"Yes, Mama." Sybil nodded, sinking further into her chair as the old grandfather clock chimed nine times, signalling the new hour and the end of the meal.

"Oh, look at the time. I guess we will be seeing you off now, Matthew." Robert rose from his seat, prompting all to follow his actions and rise. They all watched as Robert slowly made his hand out to Matthew and shook it as he muttered: "Good luck, my dear fellow."

"Be careful and write whenever you can," Cora whispered when she reached him, pecking him affectionately on the cheek as if he were her own son.

"Good luck." Mary smiled, taking Matthew's hand briefly before moving to stand with her mother, not wanting anyone to think that she still cared, though they all knew she did. The teary glaze in her gaze was evidence enough of that.

"Best wishes, Cousin Matthew." Edith wished, taking his hand for slightly longer than Mary did before moving out of the way for Sybil to wish him luck.

Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around Matthew and held him tightly for a moment, breaking all sense of property, hoping that her friend knew that she wished him the best of luck. Matthew held her for a moment and mumbled: "oh, Sybil," before she finally released him and looked up at him with shining eyes.

"Be careful and good luck, Matthew," Sybil mumbled before finally moving away and watching him turn to her and the rest of her immediate family as Violet stepped forward, a genuine tender gleam in her gaze as she wished him luck. She clasped his hand for a moment before stepping back and taking her youngest granddaughter's hand as Matthew looked around and the servants each filed inside.

"Thank you all of you." Matthew inclined his head, addressing both the Crawley's and their staff, fondness and admiration gleaming in his gaze. He may not have known most of the staff very well, and he may have been on bad terms with Mary, but he did appreciate each and every one who was gathered in the room before him. With one last look, he made his way out of the dining room with Isobel following him and taking his hand just as they entered the main hall.

"Good luck, my love, my dear boy. Write to me as often as you can." Isobel whispered, tears brimming in her gaze as she embraced him tightly, not wanting to let go. Fear flooded her being, and she clung to Matthew as he held her tightly, closing his eyes as he let his mother hold him. Both knew how serious this was, and when Isobel pulled away slowly, she whispered: "I love you, my darling boy."

"I love you too, Mother," Matthew assured her, pressing one last kiss on her forehead before she walked away, turning in the doorway to the drawing-room to take one last look at him. With that, she allowed him to leave, her gaze never leaving him until he finally stepped out into the cold night air. Only then did she let her tears fall as both fear for his safety and pride in his courage overwhelmed Isobel. At that moment, she prayed silently for his safety, her tears splashing against the ground as the door closed behind Matthew, and he began his way towards the war.

…

The moment the heavy front door closed behind him, Matthew couldn't help but feel the crushing weight of the situation he was about to enter fall upon his shoulders. In that one moment, he felt cripplingly lonely. He'd never known a feeling like it of complete and utter emptiness. It was a soul-crushing feeling, and he had no idea how to comprehend it. He couldn't run back inside and beg them to contact the war office and say that he wasn't ready. He couldn't go back. He could only go forward into the uncertain and hope to make it out of the other side.

"Are you ready, Mr Crawley?" Tom's question pulled Matthew out of his thoughts as the chauffeur neared him, having noticed that older man had paused by the door. Even in his finery and with the perfected mask Matthew wore, Tom could see the fear in his gaze and the uncertainty that accompanied it.

"I am." Matthew nodded, heading towards the car with Tom in his wake. The feeling of loneliness faded, not completely, but just enough for him to be comfortable as he and Tom both made their way to the car. It fell silent, hovering over him, but not directly affecting him as Tom started the motor, the hum soothing Matthew's nerves as the Irishman made his checks and headed towards the driver's seat. Matthew observed as Tom checked several more times for any sign of anyone who might run out in front of them before he finally pulled away. Only when he had did Matthew speak up.

"I hear you're not planning on enlisting, Branson."

There was no judgement in Matthew's tone, merely an observation. In all honesty, he didn't blame those who didn't sign up. He could understand why they wouldn't want to, especially someone like Tom. After all, why should Tom have to serve the country that had reigned over his for centuries as nothing more than tyrants? Why would he want to more like?

"Sir?" Tom questioned, his gaze darting nervously to the rearview mirror to try and gage Matthew's opinion on the matter. He wasn't too sure just what Matthew made of him.

"I bet Sybil is glad that you aren't," Matthew observed, watching Tom flinch at the suggestion, even though both knew it was true. She was happy that he wasn't going to sign up, even though he hadn't been planning on doing so even before her request for him not to do so.

"Sir, I don't -"

"Please, I saw how worried you were when she got hurt at Ripon." Matthew reminded him, holding back on saying that he could remember the look of jealousy in Tom's gaze when Sybil had leant on him and not the chauffeur. He didn't mention that Sybil had whispered the Irishman's name when she spoke, though only Matthew had heard it. Sybil could barely remember that part of the night, and Tom didn't need any more false hope.

"And you don't mind, Sir?" Tom asked quietly, glancing over his shoulder to look at Matthew, his heart thudding loudly in his chest and his blood roaring in his ears.

"Not at all. You look after her and make her happy." Matthew informed him, "I made a promise of my own to her that when the war is over, I will help to make sure the family came round to the idea, provided she wants you when it is over."

"Thank you." Tom managed to mutter, attempting to both wrap his mind around Matthew's words while also focusing on not crashing the car.

"Sybil will never be happy with someone she doesn't love." Matthew pointed out, watching the man in front of him nod instinctively at that. He had come to notice over the past few months that Tom often acted naturally, especially around or when he heard mention of Sybil. All his layers seemed to fall away instantly; she was his soft underbelly.

"No, she won't." Tom mumbled, "she's worried about you going off to war."

"I know - she is the sweetest spirit this village has ever seen." Matthew conceded, smiling fondly at the thought and watching the smile that spread across Tom's face as he inclined his head to agree.

"She is and will always be."

"You're good for her," Matthew informed the chauffeur, watching as he shook his head in disbelief at the mere notion of it. Tom wanted to be good for Sybil, but he hardly doubted an Irish revolutionary would be good for anyone, let alone her. Matthew, however, as if sensing Tom's thoughts, was determined to prove that he didn't agree and added: "You are, whether you know it or not. Sybil will never be able to settle for money and high status. They don't matter to her, not in the way that they matter to her sisters, especially. She doesn't care about what society thinks, but you do matter to her, and one day, she will admit that to herself, I can assure you that. You just have to wait for that day."

Meeting Matthew's gaze in the mirror, Tom swallowed slowly and found himself speaking despite himself. He found himself confessing to Matthew as if he were at church as he whispered: "I'd wait forever if she asked me to."

"I know."

Silence followed. Both had no idea what to say after that, and in the end, there was little more that needed to be said. Matthew had told Tom all he had needed to and had heard the answers to his questions. He didn't need to speak and nor did Tom, who was too lost in his own thoughts even to open his mouth. It wasn't until they reached the station that their silence was finally broken when Tom stated: "This is the station, Sir."

"Thank you, Branson." Matthew nodded, swallowing slowly before clambering out of the car, taking his case, that had been placed in the back when he'd arrived at Downton hours earlier. Just as he exited, he heard two words spoken in an Irish brogue that echoed through his mind, even as Tom drove off. Two words he had never expected to hear from the chauffeur that gave him a tiny rush of hope that things could change.

"Good luck."

…

By the time Tom had returned the car to the garage and began to walk to his little cottage, night had really set in as had the cold along with it. He found himself pulling his jacket tightly around himself as he headed for the small cottage, not noticing that the lights were already on in the living area. He didn't even question it when the door opened without the key and didn't see the person waiting for him as he turned back to lock the door. It wasn't until he had finally removed his jacket and was about to start making the fire when he finally saw her.

"Lady Sybil!"

Tom almost flew a foot into the air in surprise. He certainly hadn't been expecting to see her in his living room dressed in her nightdress once more. Only this time it wasn't clinging to her, though, if he had been less prudent, he would have noted that the material still clung to her and displayed her shapely figure. Instead, he stood there gawping like an idiot at the sight of her. Tom wasn't sure whether he was dreaming or not.

"Tom," Sybil whispered, crossing the room to him and wrapping her arms around his waist. Her left ear came to rest over his pounding heart, and she tucked her head beneath his chin as his arms slowly wrapped themselves around her frame, pulling her closer to him. For a moment, both closed their eyes, letting themselves be lost in the moment. They just clung to one another taking in the feeling of the other in their arms and hoping that the moment would never end.

"I wish this could be how we could greet one another every time we saw each other, a ghrá mo chroí," Tom confessed before gently brushing his lips over her forehead, watching her eyes flutter as he did. He couldn't hold back the smile that graced his lips at that sight and could help but pull her even closer to his chest, so there was no space in between them.

"Me too," Sybil whispered into Tom's chest. She stayed like that, enjoying the warmth spreading through her body from Tom's tight embrace. She couldn't help but marvel at the sensation of Tom's fingers absentmindedly playing with her hair when one of his hands came to rest on the back of her head. For a long moment, she was at peace. She felt comforted and safe, here in the arms of her family's chauffeur.

Eventually, when she pulled away, Sybil found herself asking: "Is Cousin Matthew, alright?"

"He's alright," Tom assured her gently, hoping to reassure her, but only watched as a wave of fear cascaded through Sybil and tears brimming in her eyes as the reality of it sunk in. Her cousin, her friend, had left to go and fight in a foreign country, and they had no idea what was going to happen to him.

"Oh, Tom."

Sybil's sob broke Tom's heart. He had never heard anything that broken and lost before. She was usually so well put together, in control of her emotions and able to stand unaided. Her strength was unrivalled, but at that moment, the gravity of the situation hitting her head-on, he was reminded of just how young and afraid she was. At that moment, Sybil Crawley was more human than he'd ever seen her, and yet in a strange way, she was more beautiful than ever with every single one of her walls down and her raw feelings on display.

"It's alright." Tom whispered, pulling Sybil back into his arms, mumbling: "Everything will be just fine. I promise."

Over and over he assured her everything would be just fine, swaying her gently in his arms as one hand ran over her soft dark brown curls. His other hand remained securely around her waist as he held her. He could feel the few tears she shed through the thick velvet of his waistcoat and continued to murmur as Sybil regained control of herself. He never once let go of her, needing to be sure that she was alright. He didn't care how long he needed to stay like that. He needed to be sure that when he released Sybil that she would be alright.

"Thank you for making me feel safe," Sybil whispered when her tears no longer fell from her glassy gaze. She pressed her head against the steady beat of his heart, listening to it thud steadily in his chest. The soft rhythm soothing her and calming her fear as Tom's fingers wove themselves in her hair. She smiled at the feeling, mumbling: "I need you too much to let you go."

Tom's heart skipped a beat. He could hardly believe his ears and found himself shaking it off as wishful thinking as if his exhaustion was playing tricks on him. Instead, he stayed silent, clutching Sybil's body tightly to his and never wanting to let go, praying that one day he wouldn't have to do so. He would have given anything at that moment never to have to let go of her, and he would have given even more to her murmur those five words once more. He would have sold his body, heart and soul just to hear her say it just once more. The sound burnt itself into his mind, and despite being little more than a timid whisper, those words fluttered around the cottage filling it with hope.

"I need you, Tom Branson."

Allowing her eyes to flutter shut, Sybil's small hands tightened around the material of Tom's waistcoat as she fell silent and let the moment last for as long as possible. She refused to pull away. She refused to let go and closed her eyes, heart and mind to the thought of ever giving this up. She never wanted a day to come where she couldn't be like this, safely in his arms, listening to him mumble to her as he held her. She would have given up her entire world for him at that moment as he whispered back to her in return, filling her soul with hope for the future and making her heart flutter at his sincerity.

"God knows I need you just as much, Sybil Crawley."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tá grá agam di - I love her  
A ghrá mo chroí - My heart's beloved
> 
> Thank you very much to Historygeek12 for all of your help on this chapter, I really appreciated it.


	3. October 1914

'Love is like war: easy to begin but very hard to stop.'

\- H.L. Mencken

October 1914

As September turned to October, Downton Abbey had changed very little. It still seemed to forget, at least on the outside, that there was a war on. The lavish dinners and elegant displays of wealth were still bestowed on the inhabitants while the fervour of war raged inside their minds. Even in everyday occurrences, both up and downstairs could lead to an argument on that topic, something that Tom Branson knew all too well.

Midway through October, when Tom had arrived for breakfast early that morning, having, once again, not slept well the night before. Bleary-eyed and exhausted, he had cursed his mind for the night of fitful sleep and the never-ending images of war that had danced before him. No matter how much he had tried to think of something more pleasant, his mind refused to listen, always clamouring back to the sound of bullets flying and the images of nameless, faceless men laying face down in the mud. Even when he had finally managed to shut his eyes, the morning decided to arrive far too quickly for his exhausted brain.

Fatigue clung to him as he greeted Mrs Patmore with a nod of the head before he had taken his usual seat at the long table with his paper clasped firmly in his hand. By this point, the newspaper, The Irish Times, had become something of an old friend, and he made a habit of reading that before turning to the local paper.

Opening the slightly yellowed pages, Tom set about pouring over the pages. As his eyes darted from one sentence to another, Tom barely acknowledged the other staff entering the communal hall. He paid them no notice as each took their seats, filing in one at a time from their rooms upstairs. The housemaids, besides Anna, brushed past him, paying him as much attention as he paid them, each making their way to the very end of the table where they sat gossiping. It was only Anna who smiled at him, sitting down beside him as she often did when he dined with the other servants.

"Morning, Tom." Anna smiled softly, sitting down beside him and rubbing at her eyes, trying to get rid of the sleep in them that was always present in the morning.

"Morning." Tom inclined his head to Anna, briefly looking up from his paper and offering her a small smile before returning to his reading. After two years of working together and eating breakfast together, Anna had grown more than used to Tom's attitude in the morning, coming to find it as a pleasant constant in an ever-changing world.

"So how bad are things over in France?" Anna asked quietly as the others began filing in, ready to sit down and eat. She only looked away from her companion to smile up at Daisy as she passed her a small bowl of steaming porridge.

"They still reckon it'll be over by Christmas, but I doubt it," Tom muttered darkly, knowing that they were in too deep for it to be over in two months. He'd seen conflict before that never seemed to end, and nothing there had felt quite this hopeless. He'd fought before and knew the price of war too well.

"You think?" Anna asked, her eyebrows rising. After all, for the past few months, they'd all been assured that the war would be over by Christmas. Sighing softly, she murmured: "I suppose it's to give the men hope, but I hope it doesn't drag on..."

Tom sighed heavily, folding the paper and looking steadily at the woman beside him. Part of him wanted to assure her that it would be over soon enough, but the realistic side of his brain told him that there was no point. Setting the paper aside, Tom stated softly: "War is very easy to start, but it is incredibly difficult to end."

Anna nodded slightly, her eyes downcast, and her expression forlorn. Taking a sip of her tea, Anna paused for a moment and sighed: "I suppose you are right there. Those poor men on the front line."

"Well, it has made me feel somewhat sorry for Thomas, which I never thought would happen," Tom confessed, his Irish brogue thicker with sleep as he watched William walk into the room and sit opposite him. Smiling at the younger man briefly, Tom turned back to Anna and added: "I hope he survives no matter how much of a prig he is, but I don't know if he will."

"I hope he doesn't die and the same for Mr Crawley from upstairs," Anna whispered, dipping her head slightly.

"Yes, I definitely feel sorry for Mr Matthew." Tom nodded, placing a hand on Anna's shoulder for a brief moment, hoping to offer her some small comfort before moving to pour himself a cup of tea. As he did, he caught sight of William staring at him, his eyes clouded with confusion. "William, are you alright?"

"You just make it sound like the war is a terrible thing for these men," William replied, haughtily.

Tom paused, staring. He had always liked William and had even supported him when he had punch Thomas after the comments the ex-footman had made about about William's late mother. Yet, of late, Tom had been finding William's patriotism and willingness to fight in the war more and more infuriating. The younger man had no idea what war was like, and Tom couldn't help but feel his skin crawl at the thought.

"War is a horrible thing, William. Only those who have never experienced it think otherwise." Tom found himself pointing out, biting back the harsh inflexion he so wanted to add. He knew that he had to keep his tone in check, and hoped not to draw attention to himself or William.

"But serving your country is an honour, and I wish I could do so." William countered, glaring at Tom.

"Aye, serving your country, not mine. Besides, what honour is there really? All you end up with is an early grave or the haunting memories." Tom replied, trying not to let his anger get the better of him and hoping he could keep his tone in check. He knew how much trouble his sharp tongue could get him in and besides, William was much more well respected than he was after all.

From beside Tom, Anna found herself staring down at both men in disbelief before calmly stating: "That's enough. We are all entitled to our difference of opinions."

"No." William shook his head, putting his hands on the table with enough force to send the table shaking slightly. The tremors and shockwaves sent by his actions, startling the other members of staff. Ignoring the looks being sent his way, William turned to Anna and pointed out: "Tom is forgetting that he is part of this country too and it should be an honour to deserve its history and influence in the world."

Tom stared at William, desperately trying to keep himself from lashing out like William was. He knew that arguing with someone twelve years, his junior would earn him no respect or favours with the fellow staff. Through a forced smile, Tom muttered: "Anna is right; we are entitled to a difference of opinions."

Tom was about to suggest a new topic of conversation, but William was having none of it. His patriotic tendencies wouldn't allow him to leave it be and he found himself asking: "So are you just going to watch on while the young men of our generation die for your selfishness?"

Tom snapped back to look at him, the words ringing in his ears. The blood roared in his veins, and he found himself staring at William in utter disbelief as he echoed: "Selfishness?"

"Yes, downright selfish. Refusing to fight and protect our country and its honour." William responded, his tone angrier than Tom had ever heard of it. Had he not been used to hearing his brothers argue when he had been in Dublin, Tom might have flinched at the tone, but instead, he kept his face impassive despite his rising anger.

"I'm not selfish and fighting for 'honour' is rather selfish itself." Tom countered, his eyes flashing with fury, but his voice remained steady and calm, much to the surprise to all of those watching on. Even Carson was surprised at the way that Tom held back his temper, and couldn't quite bring himself to stop the argument just yet.

"It is not selfish! It is the most unselfish thing there is. You should feel guilty and be given a white feather! You conscientious objector!" William snapped, his voice seething, and his eyes full of the fervour that only war could bring out in someone.

"Aye, I am a conscientious objector." Tom leaned forward, his eyes locked with William's as he added: "Because I grew up in the midst of a war. I have seen what endless fighting does to a country and what happens afterwards, so excuse me if I don't want to fight for a country that destroyed mine. I have seen what endless fighting does to a country, and I know how high the price conflict is, I can assure you of that."

"Just wait till your locked up for refusing to serve." William hissed, his eyes narrowing.

"Better to be locked up with a record for the rest of your life than dead in some foreign field forever forgotten." Tom countered, oblivious to the fact that everyone was watching him and William.

"Dying with honour is more admirable than being in prison!" William exclaimed.

"For you, perhaps." Tom shrugged, his eyes narrowing before he straightened up and added: "But what proper high born English soldier would want an Irish mick fighting beside him? They'd be more likely to kill me than the Germans."

"And now I see why," William replied, more than unhappy with Tom by this point.

"See why what? Why would people want to kill me? Trust me just being a socialist can set some people off." Tom shook his head slowly, more than used to the fury that William was projecting towards him.

"That is quite enough now."

Both men's head turned to face Mr Carson, who had risen from his seat to tower over the table while the rest of the staff watched on, unsure of what to do, forgetting about the formality of rising when Carson did. No one dared speak, and their eyes darted back and forth, not knowing who to look at. Carson was impassive and severe, but his expression displayed no signs of anger; his features were as schooled as ever, not betraying anything to anyone. William, on the other hand, was red faced and looked as if he was about to explode while Tom's face was tinged with pink while his blue gaze had grown stormy. Yet, despite their fury, they weren't going to argue with Carson.

"Yes, Mr Carson." Both inclined their heads, suddenly realising that they had an audience and that their discussion had disrupted everyone else's breakfast. Silence settled over the room as they all sank into their seats, not meeting anyone's gaze and each servant, whether involved or not, were grateful to hear the sound of the bells summoning them to their stations. Yet, despite that feeling, there wasn't a single person who didn't find themselves recalling the argument over the course of the day, especially Tom.

…

Tom was unable to shake his foul mood, no matter what he did; tinkering with the engine only distracted his hands while his tortured mind only brought forth images of Ireland and France. The engine grease held felt like blood against his hands, and every time he dropped something, he heard the soft thud of a bullet casing hitting the floor. The old scars that littered his body from his time in Ireland seemed to flare up, serving as a reminder of why he refused to fight, or at least one of the reasons. Even thinking of her couldn't make Tom shake the fury and pain that filled his head.

Not even seeing her did that.

He was silent when he pulled the car around the front of Downton Abbey, standing at ease in front of the car, his eyes focused on the front door, though his thoughts were a million miles away. When Sybil and Cora did appear, he moved as if in a dream, barely registering his movements, acting purely on muscle memory. Instinctively, he reached out for her hand and helped her up into the car, his hand closing around hers.

"Thank you, Branson." Sybil smiled to him, forcing the formality out as her mother watched her get into the car from just in front of the steps. She squeezed Tom's hand, offering him a tentative but warm smile.

"You're welcome, My Lady." Tom nodded, releasing her hand as she settled inside the car before he made his way back to the driver's seat, his whole being still tense from the argument with William earlier. His shoulders were tense, and his mind was miles away.

He sighed as he started the car and headed down the drive, attempting to focus on the road and on the action of driving. He barely even noticed Sybil looking over at him and Tom found himself acting more like another Crawley sat in the back of the car. He was not in a good mood, and he wanted the day to be over. Even with Sybil in the back of the car, a smile wouldn't form on his lips.

"Tom, are you alright?" Sybil finally asked, unsure of what to make of his silence, since he usually never stopped talking when it was just the two of them. He had never once driven her in silence before, not even the first time he had driven her, and she refused to allow him to do so now.

"Yes, m'lady." He replied, his voice more hoarse than normal. His Irish brogue was much thicker than normal, hurt, anger and frustration lacing his tone. Even his driving seemed more tense was much more jarred, and Sybil could see that something definitely wasn't right.

"If you're alright, then I am a man." Sybil countered, her eyebrows raised in disbelief at Tom's coarseness, but when he only shrugged, Sybil found herself huffing in annoyance. Part of her wanted to ask what had happened, but she assumed it would be safer to talk about something else. She stayed silent for a moment before finally asking: "Well, anyway, did you hear that the Suffragettes are calling off their protest while the war is on?"

"Yes, I did," Tom replied softly, shaking his head, fully aware of what she was trying to do. Although he appreciated it, Tom's mood couldn't be lightened by a light-hearted political discussion. Shrugging once more, Tom mumbled: "I don't think that's the right move, but anyway."

"'But anyway'? 'But anyway'?" Sybil asked, her voice an octave higher than normal. Her face was a picture of shock and confusion before she found herself inquiring: "Who are you, and what have you done with Tom Branson?"

Sighing heavily, Tom slowed the car, glancing back at Sybil, locking his eyes with her before turning away and bowing his head for a moment. Sybil kept her gaze on him as he apologised softly: "I'm sorry, Sybil. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be so rude. You do not deserve that."

"No, I don't." Sybil snapped, reminding him of Mary at that moment before she gained control of her frustration. Her face flushed and she hung her head mumbling: "Sorry, that was uncalled for, but please, Tom, talk to me whether it is to tell me what's wrong or whether it is your views of the suffragettes. I just want to talk to you."

He looked at her, his eyes glistening, showing a small sign of vulnerability. He glanced down at his gearstick before meeting her gaze once more, Tom sighed: "I had a rough morning at the house. I agree with the suffragettes stopping during the war, of course."

Shaking his head slowly, Tom couldn't help but find himself sitting more upright, his back straightening and his eyes drifting back to Sybil before responded: "You're right, I don't agree, but I was trying to avoid another argument today, but if you want the truth, I don't see why they've stopped. Just because the war is going on, why should they stop?"

"When aren't I right?" Sybil asked, a teasing smile on her rosy lips, watching the mirth bubble up in his gaze and that only increased when she added softly: "It's the benefit of being upper class."

"Oh, really?" Tom questioned, cocking an eyebrow upwards.

"No, otherwise I would have to concede that Papa was right all the time and we never agree." Sybil reminded him, shaking her head at the idea. Her excitement soon bubbled away, and she added in a much more serious tone: "Anyway if we can prove that we are willing to help while the country is in crisis they might stop seeing us as selfish, horrible women and give us the vote."

Tom paused for a moment, the mirth filtering out of his gaze before he gently teased: "Now I'm beginning to think you might be a secret Suffragist."

"How dare you!" Sybil exclaimed in mock horror. Her hand flew over her heart, and her mouth dropped open in fake shock and surprise: "Excuse me, Mr Branson, I need to go and chain myself to the railings to prove a point."

"How do you plan on explaining that to your grandmother?" Tom asked, a smile finally gracing his lips, a chuckle following along with it. He could imagine her doing such a thing outside of Downton to prove a point to her family, and to him.

"She will understand when I say it was to prove a point." She chuckled, knowing full well that Violet would fully support her protest; her grandmother was always one for drama. "You know she has a devilish side too."

"I bet she does," Tom muttered, chucking to himself, his chest feeling later with every passing minute. Hearing Sybil talk about her grandmother, he couldn't help but add: "She should meet my grandmother, and they can trade notes on being stubborn and making everyone else feel inferior or judged."

"Sounds like a plan for the future." She laughed before noticing Tom's smile immediately disappearing at the mention of his family and talk of the future, so much, so she found herself asking: "How are things in Ireland?"

"Not good," Tom confessed quietly, his demeanour changing instantly. "Kieran had to leave because the police suspected him of being involved with protests. My Ma and my Grandma said that food prices have skyrocketed for locals while troops get everything on the cheap. There isn't much they can do, and my cousin Henry seems to be making trouble."

"Is there anything you can do to help them?" Sybil asked, leaning forward, her silvery blue eyes wide with concern and hope that she could help in any way.

"We could rebel," Tom mumbled darkly until he finally realised that she was talking about helping his family in particular and not about Ireland in general. Shaking his head to clear it, Tom sighed heavily and quietly informed her: "I send them whatever income I don't need, which is about eighty per cent of what your father pays me each month."

"How come your managing on so little?" Sybil asked, not quite able to comprehend how someone could live on so little. After all, her entire life had been spent in the luxury of life as an Earl's daughter, and she'd never found herself wanting for anything. Then again, she surmised, Tom had always lived a vastly different life to her and things she found essential were often nothing more than trivial to him. She was beginning to see that now.

"My food is paid for because I eat with the servants. I borrow all my books, and I can clean without help. Plus, if I need bread, I can make it myself - I brought what I need, and I don't need new clothes every three seconds." Tom pointed out, watching Sybil's face in the rearview mirror as he spoke, her face was a window into her mind. Surprise and then intrigue coloured her expression.

"You're very domestic, aren't you?" Sybil asked, no malice in her voice; in fact, she seemed somewhat in awe of Tom's ability to fend for himself without an army of servants to help him. She didn't even know how to make a pot of tea, let alone bake bread or clean up a room.

"That comes from growing up with not much." Tom shrugged, biting back the slightly judgemental undertone that he almost spoke in. He watched out of the corner of his eye and mumbled: "Thank you for making me feel better, Sybil. I guess you'll want to know why I was in such a foul mood?"

"Only if you want to tell me. I will never push you to talk about these things, Tom." Sybil pointed out, though she was undeniably curious to know what had made him so angry. She had never seen anyone sent him off in such a way before and she couldn't understand just how it had happened, then again, he was yet to explain.

"I know that, but you're still curious, don't deny it." Tom pointed out, his eyes sparkling; he loved and admired Sybil's curiosity even if it infuriated him sometimes. He had never quite met anyone as passionate and as driven as Sybil was about everything that inspired her.

Sweeping a lock of hair behind her ear, Sybil smiled softly at Tom and found herself admitting: "I am. I want to know who ruffled your feathers."

"Since when did I have feathers?" Tom asked, a teasing note to his tone. Mirth glistened in his gaze for a few seconds before growing much more serious as he answered her properly: "William."

"William? Really? Do I dare ask what happened?" Sybil stared at Tom in disbelief, her eyes widening at the mere thought of Tom arguing with William. As far as she was aware, William was a gentle soul, and she had never known him to get in trouble or in an argument with anyone besides with the odd disagreement with Thomas.

"You can ask, but you'll have to wait for your answer," Tom informed her, slowing the car and pulling up in front of the Dower House, knowing full well that they were already late enough. Sybil had been late, leaving the house, and he hadn't exactly being driving at the fastest pace.

"And why's that?" Sybil asked, cocking her head to the side, confusion masking her feature. Her soft rosy lips parted, and her silvery-blue gaze alight with wonder. She had no idea what he was referring until he finally turned in his seat to face her and inclined his head to the side.

"Because we're at your grandmother's house."

…

The Dower House might not have been as grand as Downton Abbey, but the place was more than beautiful. The red and white brick building was grand, yet welcoming, and whenever Sybil came here, she found herself feeling more free than she did at Downton. In fact, it was the only familial residence that made Sybil feel less than judged. Despite Violet Crawley's sharp tongue, the youngest Crawley daughter never felt safer than she did when she was here. In fact, the moment that Violet saw Sybil, she couldn't help but smile and held her hand out for her.

"Ahh, Sybil dear, there you are. I had thought you'd gotten lost." Violet smiled, beckoning for her granddaughter to come and sit beside her. The moment Sybil sat down, Violet gently took her hand, squeezing it lightly and a warm note in her eyes that only her family could bring out.

"Sorry Granny, I was later leaving Downton than planned." She explained, glancing over at the fire, feeling the warmth spread through her bones as she did. The crackle of the fire was comforting, and the presence of Violet only served to make her feel more at home.

"I had gathered as much." Violet sniffed, though there was no menace in the sound. She could never truly be malicious when it came towards talking to her youngest grandchild. Sybil was always her favourite, and she always had found her the sweetest of the three.

Smiling softly, Sybil found herself asking: "So how are you, Granny?"

"Doing better than those in France, I suspect," Violet responded loftily, her usual air of indignance following her words. Shaking her head, Violet turned to Sybil and added: "What has the world come to where civilised gentlemen have to live underground and fire metal at each other for days on end? Really you would have thought they'd have more sense."

"War is evil. I just hope more people realise this... unfortunately the hard way." Sybil sighed softly, her eyes darkening at the thought of it.

"Never mind that now, dear. There is nothing we can do." Violet tutted, knowing full well how severely affected Sybil had been at the outbreak of war.

"Sorry, granny. I just want the world to be a better place." Sybil whispered, her eyes no longer meeting Violet's, and her voice grew even quieter.

"There's no use in thinking that, dear unless you plan on changing it yourself." Violet pointed out, knowing full that there was nothing she nor Sybil could do right now. Before Sybil could argue with her, Violet caught sight of her maid and called out: "Ahh, Smithers, there you are, bring us some tea."

"Very good, My Lady."

"Now, what I wanted to talk to you about was what are your plans for your future? Do you have any suitors lined up?" Violet pressed, hoping to distract Sybil from the horrors happening beyond their borders. She knew all too well not to let the young woman dwell on that.

"Umm, no."

Flushing, Sybil looked away from Violet, knowing full well that if her grandmother knew the object of her affections, then she would likely never see him again. Then again, her grandmother did like to go against everyone's expectations just for her own enjoyment. Sybil could never quite judge what Violet was going to do or say.

"Really?" Violet asked, disbelief lacing her tone and her eyebrows rising at Sybil's immediate denial. Instead of pointing this out, Violet found herself mumbling: "I must have had a hundred crushes at your age. Unless perhaps you do have one, who your father would never approve of."

"Granny, what are you trying to say?" Sybil asked quietly, her eyes scanning Violet's face, unsure of what to make of it all. She had no idea what Violet was thinking, and she couldn't be certain what the outcome would be. After all, she wasn't too sure of her feelings; she didn't know how deep they were or how romantically inclined they were. All she knew was that whatever she felt for Tom wasn't by any means a mindless dalliance.

Tutting quietly to herself, Violet shook her head at Sybil's question, a light sigh leaving her lips and she found herself patting her granddaughter's hand. "I'm trying to let you know that it is understandable if you are interested in someone else. You're eighteen-years-old after all, but just don't be irresponsible."

"I'm not going to do that," Sybil mumbled indignantly, her cheeks flushing at the idea. She knew all too well what Violet was referring to, and Sybil was certain that she wasn't ready yet, whether that meant talking about it or acting.

"Good." Violet nodded, pursing her lips at the thought before shaking her head. Only then did she catch the look that Sybil sent her way and Violet quickly harped: "Oh, don't look at me like that. War can bring about many inappropriate friendships, and when they are over, you can often find yourself on the wrong side."

"Granny, aren't those views outrated?" Sybil asked, cocking her head to the side and staring at Violet, her silvery-blue eyes full of annoyance. She couldn't stand the prejudice that the upper class had for anyone who didn't fit in or the lower classes or women in general. She despised their attitudes to the outsiders and couldn't wait to be able to break away from those ideas.

Pursing her lips once more, Violet looked at her youngest granddaughter, taking in Sybil's appearance and expression for a long moment. She knew how strongly the young woman thought about this and found herself reminding her: "Sybil darling, I know this will come as a shock to you, but I cannot change how the world is."

"I know that, Granny." Sybil hung her head.

"People have sharp tongues, Sybil, and if you are not careful, you will end up learning how sharp they are." Violet pointed out, her usual indifference having long vanished and a tender loving gleam to her gaze. She stared at Sybil, a glimmer of sympathy in her gaze as she looked at the younger woman. Violet knew that there was nothing she could say or do that would ease Sybil's concern or change her granddaughter's feelings. All she could do was sit there with her and hope that one day there would be a way to make Sybil be truly happy.

One day.

Perhaps.

**Author's Note:**

> A ghrá - My Love  
A chroí - My Heart  
Gur ghoid tú mo chroí, mo bhean - You have stolen my heart, my lady


End file.
